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Why Serious Leaders Need Hobbies, and How I rebuilt creativity after years in executive modeArticle originally wrote for <a data-mce-href="https://dorotaww.substack.com/p/the-nervous-system-of-leadership-879?r=1up3dt&amp;utm_campaign=post&amp;utm_medium=web&amp;triedRedirect=true" href="https://dorotaww.substack.com/p/the-nervous-system-of-leadership-879?r=1up3dt&amp;utm_campaign=post&amp;utm_medium=web&amp;triedRedirect=true">Substack</a> 2.27.2026Last week, I <a data-mce-href="https://substack.com/@dorotaww/p-188628263" href="https://substack.com/@dorotaww/p-188628263">wrote</a> about the emotional shock of finding myself a true beginner again while exhibiting my artwork publicly. That experience opened a deeper question for me: if returning to novice energy is so powerful for leaders, how do we create it intentionally in our lives rather than waiting for it to happen by accident?I have been following <a data-mce-href="https://substack.com/@marinacooley?utm_source=global-search" href="https://substack.com/@marinacooley?utm_source=global-search">Marina Cooley</a> since she first started writing on Substack. One of her recurring themes is hobbies. Every time she wrote about them (the variety, the curiosity, the ease with which she seemed to move between interests), I felt something uncomfortable.Jealousy.Not because I didn’t admire her. But because I didn’t have that. I couldn’t even imagine having that.At the time, I was deep in the trenches of corporate life. My days were filled with decision-making, navigating chaos, mentoring leaders, regulating emotions, mine and everyone else’s. By the time I drove ninety minutes home, there was nothing left. I would walk into the house, eat dinner, and go straight to bed. Weekends were for groceries and recovery. Reading was the only thing that allowed me to momentarily escape and brace myself for the next week.For me, the answer began to emerge through something I once believed I did not have time for at all. Hobbies.<figure id="figure-lmwr0wkqummm4xvue1"><img id="lmwr0wkqummm4xvue1" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/19ZySdjpGMLNo6VfxZarWxCPgnWJN1mwhJvRX6xvetOwK74td2Lz4s7P17CJ80fY.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/19ZySdjpGMLNo6VfxZarWxCPgnWJN1mwhJvRX6xvetOwK74td2Lz4s7P17CJ80fY.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure>There was no room for hobbies.Then sabbatical happened.And almost immediately, something unexpected began to surface.When I couldn’t sleep, I started writing in five different journals at once, not structured entries, just whatever needed to come out. Then I began painting. At first sporadically, and then obsessively, sometimes two paintings a day. There was no system, no discipline, no strategic intention behind it. Just brush to canvas and an immediate calming effect I hadn’t felt in years.<figure id="figure-awa6vq62rmm4xwh5v"><img id="awa6vq62rmm4xwh5v" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/230KXB4EdlF5faul6dMsrpoVFrZOHes81rK7iszmJhn1hpX678Kuv6W8zQxknGjr.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: 30% 35%;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="30%" data-positiony="35%" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/230KXB4EdlF5faul6dMsrpoVFrZOHes81rK7iszmJhn1hpX678Kuv6W8zQxknGjr.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: 30% 35%;"></figure>Poetry followed the same way. Multiple poems within weeks, as if something unnamed had been waiting patiently for space. The output felt chaotic, unconfined, almost inconvenient and yet deeply regulating.And then, quietly, structure emerged.I felt the need to gather everything into one place. I built a website. I organized the paintings, the poetry, the writing. I revisited old LinkedIn articles and started a weekly Substack column because, quite frankly, I have too much to say to keep it to myself.Only then did I realize what had happened.These were my hobbies.Not imposed. Not scheduled. Not optimized.They surfaced the moment my nervous system finally came off high alert.In one of <a data-mce-href="https://substack.com/@marinacooley?utm_source=global-search" href="https://substack.com/@marinacooley?utm_source=global-search">Marina's </a>recent articles <a data-mce-href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-188443195" href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-188443195">Is bad WiFi going to keep him from Olympic Gold?</a>, she writes about Olympians. To us, their sport may look like artistry or play. But for them, it is contracts, rankings, funding, national expectations. The nervous system lives in a constant state of pressure. And that state cannot be sustained indefinitely. There must be something structurally different, something that allows the system to go “off duty.”It resonated immediately.Because I now know I was living in that same high-alert state for years. Leadership, at a high level, is emotional labor. It is cognitive intensity. It is constant evaluation and regulation. And while I loved it, my body never fully clocked out.Hobbies became my off-duty environment.I already touched on painting, poetry, and writing that are now my daily, weekly, and monthly rhythm. But wait, there is more! Reviving my Spanish and French and now learning Korean because of a K-drama obsession, forces me into imperfection again. Mahjong, which I now play with women who have forty years of experience, brings joy with almost no consequence attached. Astrology slows me down and stretches my thinking beyond quarterly metrics and operational structure. And baking traditional Polish pastries reconnects me to lineage and memory in a way no executive achievement ever could.<figure id="figure-aolft2zuksmm4xyklp"><img id="aolft2zuksmm4xyklp" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/17Mo3flj4fR83Of443UeYIt6jPbI9G7C3v01zNOTGuVSTGjiZVA0vAxpSE3qHh10.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/17Mo3flj4fR83Of443UeYIt6jPbI9G7C3v01zNOTGuVSTGjiZVA0vAxpSE3qHh10.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure>And then there is movement.Hiking returns me to presence in a way few things can. There is no optimization, no urgency — only the rhythm of breath, terrain, and time. Skiing does something similar, but through challenge instead of stillness. It demands focus, humility, and trust in the body rather than the intellect. Traveling extends that lesson even further. Stepping into new countries, languages, and cultural norms disrupts routine and perspective; it forces awareness, adaptability, and curiosity. In all three, I am reminded that progress is not always linear, that mastery cannot be rushed, and that growth often begins with disorientation.<figure id="figure-58rg9go1k7mm4xzj40"><img id="58rg9go1k7mm4xzj40" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/3bSKognsveLb1BuFLj7GhngGqhkRmSC55cj7PDq9eRkSwC0TnQjtwKywNeFVI6L2.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="1:1" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>None of these pursuits produce revenue. None of them improve my resume in any conventional way.But all of them improve my leadership.Because they returned me to beginner energy.They reminded me what it feels like not to know, not to excel immediately, not to have control. They reminded me how uncomfortable growth can feel in the body, how exposed and uncertain it is to step into something new.And that realization ties directly to the lesson from last week’s exhibition.Leadership is growth. Both personal growth and the growth of others. But we cannot cultivate a culture of development, mentoring, and expansion if we ourselves are no longer expanding. If we remain only in domains where we are experts, we slowly lose empathy for the emotional experience of learning.When we allow ourselves to slow down, to become novices again, to feel slightly out of place, we regain proximity to the vulnerability that our teams feel when they stretch.And that changes how we lead.As my sabbatical comes to a close, I know one thing with certainty: I will not give up my hobbies. They are not indulgences. They are not luxuries.They are structural protection for my nervous system and expansion for my leadership.And I am no longer jealous of anyone else’s.

The Nervous System of Leadership – Part Two

When Competence Stops Growing and why high-performing leaders must return to beginner energy.This article was written for Substack on 2/20/2026 <a href="https://dorotaww.substack.com/p/the-nervous-system-of-leadership" data-mce-href="https://dorotaww.substack.com/p/the-nervous-system-of-leadership">The Nervous System of Leadership – Part one</a>This past weekend I attended a local art gallery that invites emerging artists from complete beginners to more advanced creators, to showcase their work. I have been to galleries and museums many times before, of course, comfortably walking through rooms filled with paintings on the walls. But this time felt entirely different.Because one of the paintings was mine.This Substack is reader-supported. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. &nbsp; If you have been reading my column, you know I am new to this space. In fact, my first instinct was still to say, “I am not an artist.” But that is no longer true. I create, so I am an artist. What makes this moment even more meaningful is that I never painted with the intention of putting my work out into the world. The opportunity simply found me, and I decided to say yes. The exhibition theme was "Something Red"<figure id="figure-l4c0zrv4wlmlv3ygu3"><img id="l4c0zrv4wlmlv3ygu3" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/20rwBwh43zjzrugExyCRU8OvcdToCmolAGhGbZWEtKn60xg4x3Dj4Bm2jPyR7O2T.png" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/20rwBwh43zjzrugExyCRU8OvcdToCmolAGhGbZWEtKn60xg4x3Dj4Bm2jPyR7O2T.png" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure>Red, for me, has always been a complicated color. Wearing red means you stand out, and for years I believed I did not look good in it. That, of course, turned out not to be true. I look beautiful in red, and over the past few years I have worn it more boldly and unapologetically. Interestingly, that shift happened at the same time I was growing into my confidence as a woman and as a business executive running multiple departments. As I began to fully own my knowledge and skills, showing up in color became part of that embodiment.<figure id="figure-4k7j2itm6mlv3z2g1"><img id="4k7j2itm6mlv3z2g1" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/37le1GysyoEZjlYMYW2axdbtHi5sZQlGQ6JwPGNSIb2EKY2RUhzRciG38N1oNxIZ.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 3/2; object-position: undefined undefined;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="3:2" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/37le1GysyoEZjlYMYW2axdbtHi5sZQlGQ6JwPGNSIb2EKY2RUhzRciG38N1oNxIZ.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 3/2; object-position: undefined undefined;"></figure>Then came my sabbatical, and with it the unexpected uncovering of artistic expression through painting. If you look at my body of work, my safe palette is obvious: greens, blues, blacks, and browns. Grounded colors. Controlled colors. Familiar territory. There was virtually no red in sight until Devotion, then The Guardian, and finally Quantum Faith.But the real stretch was not the painting itself. It was being part of the exhibition.I walked into the gallery with quiet composure, though somewhere underneath there was a small but persistent whisper: I don’t belong here. Still, I showed up fully present and allowed the evening to unfold without expectation.<figure id="figure-cskkv4rdojmlv40df9"><img id="cskkv4rdojmlv40df9" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/372g8TlpJYGW1rgklk0Y8WlwSlnPuI4NH2j4WCSWeDaKoQ6lsjQ1rRvnM0Fmoafn.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: undefined undefined;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="1:1" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/372g8TlpJYGW1rgklk0Y8WlwSlnPuI4NH2j4WCSWeDaKoQ6lsjQ1rRvnM0Fmoafn.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: undefined undefined;"></figure> What surprised me was what happened afterward.As we were driving home, I felt tears begin to surface, unexpected, steady, and emotionally charged in a way I had not anticipated. It took me a moment to understand what was actually moving through me. And then it became clear.For more than twenty years, I have lived inside competence. I have worn the hats of executive, mentor, and the person who “figures it out.” Even as I continued to evolve, learn, and collect certifications, I remained within professional environments where I understood the rules of the game and trusted my ability to perform.This experience was different.For the first time in decades, I had placed myself squarely in the position of a true beginner, visibly new, unpolished, and without the protective armor of expertise. What struck me most was not discomfort in the room itself, but the realization of how long it had been since I had allowed myself to feel this level of newness.It was both humbling and emotionally disarming.And it also revealed something important about leadership.Many high-performing professionals, once established in their corporate identities, unintentionally stop putting themselves in environments that require true beginner energy. They continue to grow within their domain, of course, but often rely on frameworks and patterns that have worked for years (sometimes decades!) even as the complexity of the problems around them evolves.This is not a failure of intelligence or capability. It is, more often, a quiet distance from the lived experience of not knowing.I am not suggesting I now have some grand answer. But stepping into this unfamiliar creative space reminded me of something I believe many leaders forget: cultivating new experiences and genuine novice moments is not optional if we want to continue expanding our perspective.And for those of us who lead others, the responsibility goes further. We are not only called to stretch ourselves, but also to create environments where the people around us are supported in doing the same where learning, experimentation, and even visible inexperience are treated not as weaknesses, but as necessary conditions for growth.This experience stayed with me longer than I expected. Not just because of the vulnerability it surfaced, but because it raised a deeper question about how long high-performing leaders can operate without regularly returning to beginner energy. Over the past few months, I have been exploring what creates those conditions intentionally and what I discovered surprised me. I share that reflection in my next piece.<figure id="figure-r7bjw5ytgmlv41owv"><img id="r7bjw5ytgmlv41owv" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/38TrzCjQGZbm9UbadPBpbTN3xUuXDfqeU3xIgR4CIRHklfpWHRWdTLix5OFYOW5y.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>

The Nervous System of Leadership – Part One

Ten No’s, One Yes. Why Now I’m Choosing Conviction Over ComfortThis article was originally posted on Substack 2.13.20206 <a href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-187647715" data-mce-href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-187647715" title="Substack">https://substack.com/home/post/p-187647715</a> Last week I rewatched Knock Down the House, a documentary that follows women running in the 2018 primary elections across the country.The first time I saw it, I admired it. This time, I felt it.&nbsp; The film highlights women who were not supposed to be there. Women without money, without legacy power, without permission. They all gathered courage to take on the machinery of incumbency, money, and status quo politics.All of them ran because something felt wrong. And they refused to look away.They were ordinary women. Mothers. Workers. People with bills and doubts and fear in their bodies. And still, they stepped forward. They knocked on doors that were not built for them. They challenged systems that were comfortable staying unchanged.Watching it this time, I kept asking myself: why did I feel pulled back to this story?I’m at a threshold in my own life. I am re-entering the workforce but not in the way I have before. Not as the corporate executive climbing someone else’s ladder. Not as the high-performing operator inside someone else’s system.I am entering as a new leader.A sovereign leader.I am stepping into consulting, advising executives and organizations that need clarity, structure, and a disciplined path forward. I am building something aligned with my values, not just my resume.Before launching my company Anthilles Consulting, I tested the waters with mentors and friends. Almost all of them discouraged me. Consulting, they said, is uphill. Unsteady income. Harder path. Risky. Why not take the stable role? The big check? The known structure?And they weren’t wrong.I do need to work. I do need to make money.But I have arrived at a point in my life where building something I believe in matters more than chasing something impressive. Where living aligned with my values matters more than external validation. Where I would rather forge a future I am proud to inhabit than inherit one that feels misaligned.Today I saw a quote from Simon Sinek:“When we work hard for something we don’t believe in, it’s called stress. When we work hard for something we love, it’s called passion.” That word “passion”, is what called me back to this documentary.It wasn’t about politics.It was about refusal.Refusal to align with the status quo simply because it is comfortable. Refusal to stay small because the system prefers predictability. Refusal to let fear dictate the shape of your life.There is a scene where Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, one of the candidates for congress, is standing on the street with her niece, handing out pamphlets, trying to engage a passing crowd. She tells her, “For every ten no’s, we get one yes.”That line stayed with me.Ten no’s. One yes.In the end, she became a U.S. Representative in 2019. She has continued to impress me with her intelligence, perseverance, and clarity under pressure. Regardless of anyone’s political stance, what is undeniable is this: she persevered.Despite doubt. Despite dismissal. Despite being told she didn’t belong.And that is what resonated.Because building my consulting practice feels like standing on that street. Offering something. Being met with silence. Rejection. Indifference. And trusting that the one aligned “yes” will come.If not me, then who? If not now, then when?I am forging my own path despite the naysayers, despite the fear that occasionally creeps in, despite the quiet question of “will I succeed?”I believe what I am building is right. Not easy, but right.And I trust that I will meet the right people along the way. The aligned ones. The ones who value clarity over chaos. Integrity over noise. Structure over ego.Maybe that’s why I watched the film again.Not to admire someone else knocking on doors.But to remind myself that I am knocking on my own.And I intend to keep knocking.And so will I.

Knocking on My Own Door

Originally written for Substack <a href="https://dorotaww.substack.com/p/just-begin" data-mce-href="https://dorotaww.substack.com/p/just-begin" title="Just Begin">https://dorotaww.substack.com/p/just-begin</a>This week felt big, though not in a loud or celebratory way. More like one of those internal shifts that you notice only because something settles. On Tuesday, I published my company’s website, <a data-mce-href="anthilles.com" href="anthilles.com">anthilles.com</a>, and shared it publicly. What stayed with me wasn’t the fact that it was live, but that I built it myself. That still feels slightly strange to say out loud.I tried building that website twice last year and failed both times. The first attempt was while I was still fully in the corporate world. I didn’t yet know how I wanted to position myself, my thinking was unfinished, and the content felt off. I hated the process. Nothing flowed, nothing clicked, and every step felt like resistance. I quit quickly, convinced that eventually I would just hire someone to do it because this clearly wasn’t my thing. The second attempt came at the end of the year, during my third month of sabbatical. By then, I had clarity. I knew what I wanted to say. The ideas were shaped and ready. And still, the process felt heavy and technical and frustrating. I gave up after one day and didn’t think much more about it.&nbsp; Around that same time, something else was happening. I started painting unintentionally, and without agenda. It simply began coming out of me. Then poetry followed. Then longer writing. At the time, I didn’t frame it as healing, but looking back, it clearly was. Something old was loosening, moving, finding language. Eventually, I felt the need for a small corner of the internet, not to sell or promote anything, but simply to hold what was emerging. Something for me. Something for the future. A place for legacy, maybe.Building <a data-mce-href="dorotacastillostudio.com" href="dorotacastillostudio.com">dorotacastillostudio.com</a> was a completely different experience. It was light and intuitive and genuinely enjoyable. I didn’t fight the process once. I remember asking myself why this felt so different from building Anthilles, why one experience was so fluid while the other had been so full of resistance.About a week after publishing that site, almost without thinking too much about it, I decided to try again with Anthilles. And this time, it was easy. I knew what I wanted it to look like. I knew how I wanted to speak. I understood who it was for. The structure made sense, the words landed, and within a week the site was finished and ready to be published.At the same time, I was experiencing something very similar with a painting. I’m working on a landscape for my son (mountains, valleys, trees) following a YouTube time-lapse painting process clip. The video is thirty minutes long. After six hours of work spread across three days I realized I had progressed four minutes into the video.<figure id="figure-9in3xy801ymlbaklc3" class="selected"><img id="9in3xy801ymlbaklc3" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/16pYPDhgHx34snh9Jz6d9P7luyk3r1mHm8kjZoivaGgXcoRZk9yGiBtqjAIX6XSk.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/16pYPDhgHx34snh9Jz6d9P7luyk3r1mHm8kjZoivaGgXcoRZk9yGiBtqjAIX6XSk.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure><figure id="figure-6rsz63dxubmlbalek6"><img id="6rsz63dxubmlbalek6" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/386jAbAllt86FVpfRo5Tm8BHLqBt7txnV6IHUwLhyxt9fztPEAV3pevTEAFsxSBG.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/386jAbAllt86FVpfRo5Tm8BHLqBt7txnV6IHUwLhyxt9fztPEAV3pevTEAFsxSBG.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure>When I finally sat down and looked at how much of the video was still ahead of me, I felt overwhelmed. There was so much left to do, and suddenly it became clear that this painting might take weeks, maybe even months. I put my brushes away and avoided the canvas for over a week. Every time I looked at it, all I could see was what wasn’t done yet.Then I had a conversation with a former coworker. She was overwhelmed with work: things breaking, tasks piling up, nothing moving forward. I listened, and at some point I offered an outsider’s perspective. I told her that when you get in your car to drive from your home to New York, you don’t see the entire road ahead of you. You see your driveway, maybe the end of your street. As you drive, the path reveals itself, and you make decisions along the way, highway or side roads. All you have to do is begin.After we hung up, my own words landed differently. I realized I wasn’t overwhelmed by the painting itself; I was overwhelmed by imagining the entire painting at once. I had forgotten that the joy lives in painting the part that’s in front of you, not in carrying the whole thing in your mind. The next day, I sat down again. Three hours passed without effort. The painting shifted, gained depth, gained perspective. There is still so much left to do, and somehow that no longer matters. I love painting.<figure id="figure-g5kisak9mlbambcc"><img id="g5kisak9mlbambcc" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/27wGGZFV9uQdKHw7iZUehRx5aszPLp8MHanCiaJxmnbrSLkPAtKN3uMW04HptjY7.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/27wGGZFV9uQdKHw7iZUehRx5aszPLp8MHanCiaJxmnbrSLkPAtKN3uMW04HptjY7.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure>And almost immediately, the same realization connected back to building the website. The earlier versions of Anthilles hadn’t failed because I wasn’t capable. They failed because I wasn’t ready to see only the driveway. I was trying to see the entire road before I had even started moving.This feels important to name. Most things don’t feel heavy because they’re hard. They feel heavy because we demand clarity about the entire journey before allowing ourselves to begin. And again and again, what I’m being reminded of is this: you don’t need to see the whole path. You only need to take the first step. The rest reveals itself as you move.I’m noticing how often this lesson keeps returning, and how patiently it waits for me to catch up.

Just Begin.

fountain pen on text sheet paper with rose

Original article on Substack: <a title="Poems. Because I have no words..." href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-186328682" data-mce-href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-186328682">Poems. Because I have no words...</a>I thought I would write something else today. I sat down with the intention to do so.But the thoughts feel heavy. Exhausted. With everything happening in this country, especially Minneapolis, I cannot bring myself to write another piece soaked in doom and despair. I’ve read so many of them lately. They matter. They must exist. We cannot turn away or numb ourselves to what is unfolding.&nbsp; And yet… I don’t have it in me to add another one today.Instead, something quieter asked for space.As all of this is happening out there, something entirely unexpected has been happening in me. During my sabbatical, creative work began arriving without invitation. Painting first. Then sketching. Then poetry. Writing. And now, this Substack.None of it was planned.I never thought of myself as artistic. I hadn’t painted or written creatively since elementary school. The survival mode I learned early in life, the one shaped by trauma, pressed this part of me deep underground. For decades, I didn’t even know it existed.But once the door cracked open, expression poured through.Last week, it finally became clear: I wanted a place to hold it all. A home for what has been emerging. So I built one.👉 https://dorotacastillostudio.com/Everything I’ve created so far lives there.In a strange and quiet way, this feels like resistance.Art is always among the first things threatened under authoritarianism. Expression. Imagination. Education. Anything that allows people to feel, to think, to escape, to question. A disconnected, discouraged, uneducated population is easier to control. History has shown us this again and again.So this, making art, sharing it, refusing to shut down, this is my small act of rebellion.Today, instead of an essay, I want to share a poem.I wrote it for my younger son, who came home from college yesterday for the weekend. He’s the only one in our family with thick, curly hair. For years, haircuts were a source of dread for him. He never liked how he looked afterward. He would retreat, unhappy, waiting weeks for it to grow out.During his junior year of college, I offered to cut his hair myself.I had never cut hair before. I am not a hairstylist. I watched YouTube videos, took a deep breath, and tried. He trusted me—because it couldn’t be worse than what he’d already endured.And somehow, it worked.He loved it. I did too.For three years now, this has been our ritual. I used to pour myself a small drink beforehand to steady my nerves. But last night, something shifted. I didn’t need it. I just… did it. Calm. Present. Trusting my hands.I believe the work I’ve done during this sabbatical, loosening my grip on control, outcomes, fear, made that possible. I no longer need everything to be predictable. I let things unfold.At least, that’s what I choose to believe.Here is the poem.&nbsp; Haircut He arrived with bags Tired from the long drive Walked in and hugged us with his big arms.Towering over us, Tucked us under his chin, Then sigh with relief And allowed himself to breathe.His hair long but still coiled in curls, Ready for seasonal trim to happen today. I no longer hold the anxiety nor fear When I move the shears to shorten his mane.He sits patiently, playing his tunes While I work on his hair to get it to curl. Then he is up, checking the results, And then smiles broadly, loving the style.When my son comes home, The house revives. There is guitar music, laundry and steaks And gentle loving with his warm embrace.His hair now short again Big brown eyes shin on display. This is our ritual of trust, Between mother’s hands and son who feels safe.

Poems. Because I have no words....

Wrote on Substack <a href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-185561093" data-mce-href="https://substack.com/home/post/p-185561093">https://substack.com/home/post/p-185561093</a> I woke up enraged.Angry at the state of the world. Angry at the United States, here and now. I have a pattern. Every once in a while I make the mistake of going online and doom‑scrolling. Then I shut everything down for weeks, because it takes days to calm my nervous system, to rebalance, to return to a life that feels even briefly sheltered from the insanity of this world.&nbsp; Yesterday was one of those days.The image of five‑year‑old Liam being detained is now etched into my brain and my heart. It won’t leave me. And I need to say this plainly: if you are a grown man, dressed in Amazon‑bought camouflage gear, detaining a child, you are not a patriot. You are not a hero. You are a coward participating in cruelty.<figure id="figure-ide9kggao4mkrhf7xq"><img id="ide9kggao4mkrhf7xq" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/23G3M7MNuqqzTMwRSQVQTNSlNyyi1PLTLhCTFfCHtwFsdzZVGwC0D5uEoAsWDjuh.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: 50% 25%;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="1:1" data-caption="" data-positionX="50%" data-positionY="25%" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>I will be clear about who I am here, because I don’t want to waste time pretending neutrality for people who won’t hear me anyway. What we are witnessing in this country bears the fingerprints of authoritarianism. We have normalized state violence against civilians. We have normalized fear. These are not the markers of a healthy democracy. These are the tactics used in regimes we once claimed to stand against.I was born and raised in Poland. I grew up studying what led to World War II, the slow erosion of norms, the propaganda, the scapegoating, the way ordinary people convinced themselves that what they were seeing “wasn’t that bad.” I remember learning about the rise of Hitler and thinking, How could anyone have let this happen? I remember believing, naively, fiercely, that if I had been alive then, I would have fought it. That I would have protected people. That I would have stood up.I saw this coming nearly ten years ago. Some people say, “You should have left.” And they’re right. I should have. But life is not that simple when you have young children, roots, obligations, love. It wasn’t just my decision anymore.And now here I am.Sitting in my home. Safe, technically. Watching history rhyme, if not repeat. Feeling small. Feeling helpless. Wondering what it actually means to “fight” when you’re not a revolutionary in a textbook, but a real human with limits, fear, and responsibilities.The anger I feel isn’t just about what’s happening. It’s about my own helplessness. About the version of myself I imagined I would be, the one who would know exactly what to do when the moment came. I am furious at the people who still don’t see it, who dismiss everything as “fake news,” who minimize cruelty because it hasn’t reached them yet.But if I’m honest, I am most angry at myself.For the ways I have been complacent. For how little I know how to mobilize, organize, or meaningfully resist without becoming consumed by rage. For living in the tension between knowing how dangerous this is and not knowing how to stop it.I don’t want to add fuel to the fire. The world is already burning. But I also refuse to numb myself into silence. Writing this is not a solution. It is not activism. It is not resistance in the grand sense. It is a refusal to pretend I am okay.Maybe this is what resistance looks like for me right now: naming the grief, the fear, the anger without turning away. Staying awake. Staying human. Refusing to let cruelty become normal in my own mind, even when I don’t yet know what the next step is.I don’t have answers today. I only know that forgetting is dangerous, denial is lethal, and history does not need monsters to repeat itself only enough people willing to look away.I am not looking away.

I Woke Up Enraged

Dorota Castillo Studio

Dorota Castillo Art & Poetry Studio is a personal creative space for intuitive painting and poetic expression. Dorota’s work explores inner transformation, symbolism, and emotion through color and movement, guided by process rather than perfection. Each piece invites reflection, resonance, and a felt connection beyond words.